


With These Goddamn Worthless Hands

by charlie_c



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Gen, Star Wars: The Old Republic - Knights of the Fallen Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlie_c/pseuds/charlie_c
Summary: Team Wildcard AU; KotFE drama and some reflections on the choices that led there
Kudos: 9





	With These Goddamn Worthless Hands

The shuttle ride away from Ziost is a somber one. Dead silent, for a while, as both Shiloh and Zaven struggle to recover from what they witnessed, what they _felt_ … a force disturbance that left the former sick to their stomach and rendered the latter nearly unconscious from the strain.

Even so, it’s Zaven who stirs first, Shiloh just barely catching the movement at the edge of their vision as their companion eventually sits up, then rises on unsteady legs from the utilitarian bench bolted to the hull that had served as their impromptu stretcher. They cross the meager space slowly, careful of their footing, only to sink down onto the identical bench on the opposite wall, where Shiloh sits stooped forward, arms crossed over their knees and eyes obsessively tracing the corrugated patterns in the metal panels of the floor.

“How’re you holding up?” Zaven sighs, letting their head tip back against the hull.

Shiloh doesn’t move. “I’m not the one who nearly passed out,” they reply, their voice flat, nearly weak enough to be lost under the drone of the engine.

“No…” Zaven concedes, “but you also haven’t moved since we boarded two hours ago.”

The silence drags on again, but in a dull, half-conscious attempt to alleviate Zaven’s concern, Shiloh uncrosses their arms and flexes their fingers, studies their hands for a second before folding them together when it becomes obvious that they’re still shaking.

When they ultimately speak again, their voice wavers as well. “Do- do you… did you ever try to imagine what it would look like? If… if you finally faced something you couldn’t beat?”

Zaven exhales slowly through their nose, and this time they’re the one hesitating to answer as they shift uncomfortably on the bench. The panels beneath their feet rattle slightly as the shuttle coasts through some inconsequential cosmic turbulence.

“… Did you?”

It’s then that Shiloh finally tears their eyes away from the floor to meet Zaven’s gaze. They don’t answer, but judging by the way Zaven’s eyes widen with dawning understanding, only to immediately soften into something approaching sympathy (or is that pity?), they don’t have to. The answer must be there, in Shiloh’s eyes, in the constant churning terror in their gut. The admission that they have been bracing ever since they were a child for the blow that would kill them--whether it would be a stray blaster bolt from a rival gang, or an indignant fellow acolyte, or an opportunistic pirate’s torpedo, whether Zash would manage to rip their mind from their body, or Thanaton would succeed in crushing them under his misguided ideology, or the very spirits they chose to bind would destroy them from the inside, or the Dread Masters would deem them unworthy and bury them in their own nightmares… or whether the hand of the Emperor himself would simply snuff them out.

“We’re going to beat this,” Zaven says, with a level of conviction that even from the depths of their dismay Shiloh can’t help but admire. “We have to.”

“But how…?” Shiloh lets their gaze slide away from Zaven to wander over the shuttle’s interior. Desperate. Searching. “We had the Council behind us, we stopped Revan and routed his cult, we convinced the Empire and the Republic to _work together_ … And it wasn’t _enough_ .” They drag their unsteady hands over their face, muffling the broken, bitter chuckle that bleeds into the rest of their words. “It _made things worse._ What else is left?”

Zaven doesn’t immediately offer an answer, but they do gently, oh so tentatively, lay their hand on Shiloh’s arm.

It’s an infinitely familiar gesture after all these years, a simple reminder of their presence…

It’s an invitation Shiloh collapses into like a house of cards, finally uncoiling just to cling to them, without words, without tears, but with the trembling desperation of someone truly and utterly adrift.

“I don’t… I don’t know, I’m sorry,” Zaven breathes, pressing their temple to the top of Shiloh’s head. “But there’s no other choice.”

* * *

The academy never really slept. The lords kept their own schedules, and the overseers were all too willing to send acolytes on a myriad tasks and errands at all hours. Beyond even that, Korriban had its share of creatures that came crawling out of the shadows once the sun sank and the sands cooled. There was always _something_ happening, a hint of movement, or hushed voices, or a distant cry of something being hunted.

Even so, the night somehow brought just enough of a lull with it to be almost… peaceful.

And maybe, Shiloh mused, that was the problem. Maybe it was a weakness, wanting that moment of peace. Wanting to empty their mind, quiet their racing thoughts. And yet they found themself here amidst the ruins and remains of Sith far more important than they would ever be, tucked between ancient pillars high and far enough away not to be found by any prying eyes.

They thought.

They were on their feet the moment they heard footsteps, and as someone else scrambled up the rock face Shiloh coiled into a defensive stance, no weapon in hand but the tips of their fingers still brushing the hilt of the knife tucked into the back of their belt. (An old habit, no one had ever managed to break them of that.) Then Zaven stepped into view, little more than a silhouette in the darkness but by now Shiloh knew their gait, the way they carried themself, and unwound in an instant with a grateful sigh.

"Lonely?" Zaven asked, close enough now for Shiloh to catch the light smile on their lips. No idea how close they just came to getting shivved, or else perfectly aware and amused by the prospect.

"Alone." Shiloh shrugged, turning their attention back to the landscape they had been contemplating before. "But I don't mind the company."

That was enough of an invitation for Zaven, who took up a place beside them without another word as Shiloh lowered themself back to the ground. "So what's the occasion?" Zaven asked, to which Shiloh just offered a thin chuckle.

"I _was_ trying to clear my head.”

"Oh-" Zaven shifted as if preparing to stand back up, and Shiloh had to hold out a hand to stop them.

"No, sorry that’s not-” they added hurriedly, “I mean, I wasn't really getting anywhere with that."

For a short while they lapsed into an amicable silence. The temperature was dropping noticeably, the residual warmth in the sands below too distant to offer much relief from the desert winds. Shiloh shifted uncomfortably, stealing a glance in Zaven’s direction, and they could feel the question hanging in the moment between them. _Clear your head of what, exactly?_ Zaven wasn’t likely to ask outright, they had never been especially pushy in matters like that, but there was an air of curiosity about them that Shiloh couldn't quite ignore.

At length they sighed, hunching forward and dragging their fingers through their hair before the words tumbled out of them almost against their will. "Zaven do you ever think about leaving?"

The only answer they got was silence, and they kept their eyes focused ahead of them as anxiety tightened in their gut. Then hesitantly, Zaven replied, "you… mean as a full apprentice?"

Another sigh. Shiloh untangled one hand from their hair to rub at their face, shaking their head. "No," they stated. In the distance they could hear the low rumbling drone of a shuttle from the orbital station descending to the landing pad. Not the only way off the planet. But the closest one. "I mean _now._ As soon as possible. I mean running away from _all_ of this, the Sith and the Empire and the war and everything, before things get any worse."

This time Shiloh dared a glance to their side, and Zaven’s expression was difficult to read in the dark but their shock was nearly palpable as they stared back.

But the reaction they offered was not what Shiloh expected. They took a deep breath, straightened their back and tilted their head like they were giving the subject some earnest thought. Then they asked, "where would we go?"

Shiloh just laughed, a weak sound of startled disbelief. "What, just like that you're on board?"

"Did you think I was here for fun?" Zaven leaned closer, their voice dropping to a slightly more confidential level even as a touch of humor crept into their tone. "You're the only person here I even trust, much less _like_ . If you leave, _I’m_ not staying."

“Flatterer.” Shiloh grinned. “You’re just saying that so I’ll let you in on my daring escape plan.”

Zaven smiled back. “Is it working?”

“I…” Shiloh exhaled sharply, their own smile collapsing into frustration as they admitted, “I don’t have one.” Then after a moment’s thought they added decisively, “yet.”

Zaven just nodded their understanding, and a thoughtful silence settled over them once again. The question kept running through Shiloh’s head, twisting and morphing into yet more questions for which they had no satisfactory answers. _Where would we go? How would we get there? What kind of supplies would we need? Could we trust anyone here to help? What would we do once we were out?_

They shivered and wrapped their arms around themself as another night-chilled wind curled insistently through the grounds, and were just thinking they might have to admit defeat and head back to their quarters when they felt Zaven’s touch, light and almost hesitant on their shoulder. When they turned again Zaven had an arm outstretched in a clear invitation, and it was only then it became obvious that they, unlike Shiloh, had had the presence of mind to come out dressed in a cloak against the cold. Shiloh scooted closer, allowing Zaven to drape both an arm and a corner of the cloak around their shoulders.

And finally, between the grounding weight and the much needed warmth, their thoughts began to quiet.

“What do you think we would do if we got out of here?” they asked eventually, but it was a light question, tinged with idle curiosity rather than any serious concern for the future.

“Hm,” Zaven mused. “Defect? Become Jedi instead?”

Shiloh could only scoff at the notion, and Zaven’s echoing chuckle suggested they didn’t see much merit in the idea either. “I said we should _avoid_ the war,” Shiloh pointed out. “Besides, can you really see me as a Jedi? All peaceful and above it all?” They paused, trying to conjure up the image themself, and wrinkled their nose. “Wearing _brown?”_

“No, perish the thought,” Zaven snorted. Then after another short consideration, they offered, “we could be mercs?”

Shiloh glanced up out of the corner of their eye, trying to gage whether that one was a serious suggestion, but Zaven’s expression was impressively neutral. “You want to make me a Mando too?”

“Oh, you think you could handle that?” Zaven met their gaze with a mischievous quirk of their lips.

 _“Sure,”_ Shiloh fired back defensively, and when Zaven just laughed outright it earned them a sour scowl, hampered slightly by the awkward angle. “Fine, maybe I don’t want to be one. I never liked the helmets anyway.”

That just got an even heartier laugh from Zaven, who shifted and leaned back enough to give them a more straight on look, brows furrowed in disbelief. “Is your biggest concern just that whatever we end up doing, you look _cool_ doing it?”

Shiloh could feel the smile tugging at the corner of their mouth even as they tried to hold their frown in place, but with as much conviction as they could muster without it sputtering into a laugh of their own, they insisted, “yes.”

* * *

“Clear the room! Everyone out!”

Shiloh’s breath catches in their throat as the throne room comes alive with frantic movement, the guards hastily flowing out in a current around them and Zaven. They screw their eyes shut as the flurry of footsteps is joined by the dull, heavy scrape of a body being dragged away. Grating. Unavoidable.

They don’t know how to feel about Darth Marr’s execution yet, still grappling with the cold, disorienting reality that it happened. That they walked into this room with two allies, and now one of them is dead.

_(You do not have to stand against me.)_

Then everyone has pressed out into the hallway but the four of them. Shiloh, Zaven--their last remaining lifeline, now--and their captors.

This can’t be right. They can’t really…

There must be something they missed. Something they messed up. A chance they didn’t take, an avenue they didn’t explore, _something_ … It’s not a comforting thought. It wouldn’t fix anything. But somehow it’s still preferable to the alternative. To the possibility that this was all…

Inevitable.

To the possibility that Zaven was wrong.

_(Instead… you can kneel.)_

“So was that little show of force supposed to subdue us?” Zaven’s voice drags Shiloh back out into the moment and they open their eyes, glancing surreptitiously over their shoulder before taking stock of the remaining three people in the room.

Vitiate--Valkorion, whatever he wants to call himself now--simply graces them with a placid smile from his place on the dais above them. “No,” he admits, “but this was not a discussion that concerns them.” Shiloh’s gaze darts to the younger man in the white robes, stationed silent and grim at the base of the throne. Arcann, the emperor’s son. Apparently this discussion still concerns _him_ somehow. When Valkorion continues, he addresses Zaven directly.

“This concerns _you_ , Wrath. In all my centuries, you alone have merited my full attention. You leave your mark on the galaxy wherever you act, just as I do.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Zaven growls, and Shiloh steals a look their way next. Even with the ungainly weight of the wrist restraints they stand straight, shoulders squared and head high.

Valkorion regards them silently for a moment. Then without a direct response he takes a step forward and sweeps his gaze over both of them. He only locks eyes with Shiloh for the briefest moment, but their blood still runs ice cold. “Look around you,” he presses on, clasping his hands behind his back, “Zakuul is poised to become the greatest civilization in the history of the galaxy. I have forged this empire to surmount all of my previous works. To span eternity.” He pauses, centers his gaze more obviously on Shiloh this time, and when a heartbeat later he begins to descend from the dais they can’t help but shrink back. It doesn’t feel like they’re supposed to be here. They don’t want to be a part of this, they don’t _want_ his interest. “The Eternal Throne commands a fleet more vast than any ever built,” he says, and Shiloh wonders why the gravity of that statement in particular seems to be directed at _them_.

They drop their eyes to the floor, unable to bear the weight of Valkorion’s steady focus.

 _I know._ It takes an active effort not to offer up the admission aloud.

“It has the power to reshape the galaxy into any image that I choose,” Valkorion continues, his voice moving steadily closer.

Shiloh grimaces, pulling in a shaky breath. The throne room is impossibly expansive, wide open enough for the void beyond to be disconcerting. It still feels like it’s closing in around them.

 _I know_.

“Any image that _we_ choose.”

It takes a second for that to permeate through the haze of panic building in Shiloh’s skull, but it’s enough to pull their attention up from the floor. Valkorion has come to a stop a mere few paces away, and once again his attention is on Zaven. His expression is as mild as ever, but there’s something else… in his eyes. In his poise. A peculiar anticipation.

“I will share all of this with you,” he says as he extends a hand. The gesture is almost amicable. An invitation. “If you will only kneel.”

Zaven just regards the proffered hand with a bitter laugh. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to, old man?” they spit. “I _know_ you, how you think, exactly how you operate. You saw to that yourself. You don't _share_ anything. You enslave. Devour. And I will _never_ be a part of that again.” They seem remarkably calm, outwardly, or maybe just in contrast to Shiloh's cowering form beside them. But even Shiloh can feel the fury boiling just below the surface, barely concealed. The Emperor’s Wrath. Or the Empire’s.

No… No, that wrath never really belonged to any of them.

Valkorion retracts his hand with a thin, unimpressed frown, takes a step back, and issues an almost imperceptible gesture to Arcann. Without missing a beat the prince steps away from his place beside the throne and circles around the three of them, but without another word to Zaven Valkorion turns to Shiloh instead, drawing their attention away from his movements. "And what of you, child?" He asks. "You have kept your own council thus far."

"I-" whatever they were about to say dries up in Shiloh's throat on the first word. They swallow. Try again. "Why… why am I here? I'm- I'm no one, I've never been anything to you."

"That was true, once," Valkorion concedes. "You were never _meant_ to be anyone to me, you were inconsequential. But through your proximity to my Wrath I have watched you, determined as you are, claw your way up beyond that and every other limit that was set before you. You've defied both expectations and death itself at every turn, and you would not be standing here now if I didn't think you were worthy of the same offer."

And, as if to remove any doubts of his meaning, he extends his hand to them as well. The moment stalls, strains around them, and no one speaks.

They know this move. They've played this game.

On the surface, praise. Promises.

_You've defied expectations. You would not be standing here if I didn't think you were worthy._

Just below that surface… the implicit, unspoken threat.

_If I deem you unworthy, you will be removed._

This isn't a real decision. It's staying pressed against a wall or stepping into a waiting cage. Backing off a cliff or being led to safety in shackles.

It's an easy choice. They've made it before.

"Wait-" Zaven tries to move forward but Arcann seizes them by the arm, drags them backward a few paces as they bite out, "don't you- _leave them out of this!"_

Shiloh turns to catch their eye, holds their gaze, silently begs for them to understand. And, just as abruptly as Zaven's temper had flared, like a slow exhalation of breath it dissipates. The fight drains out of their posture, and all the righteous anger in their eyes gives way to realization, and then to a defeated, horrified despair.

Shiloh just mouths two simple, tiny words to them.

_'I'm sorry.'_

The restraints disconnect with a flick of Valkorion’s hand and a heavy _clunk,_ already falling away as they face him again. He has guessed their answer by now, clearly, but as they step forward and idly massage their wrists, they still volunteer with what is perhaps unwise honesty, "I want to walk out of this room, and I only see that happening one way."

Valkorion smiles. "I suspect you will learn to set your sights a little higher."

It is… more a collapse than a bow, Shiloh's knees hitting the finely tilted floor hard when their composure finally fails them completely. It dawns on them then what this is, it twists into a sickening truth in the pit of their stomach. This is more than simply changing sides, pledging themself to whatever will keep them alive.

This is surrender.

Then several things happen in rapid succession.

A pressure clamps down on their chest, like a hand, like vicious hungry claws, crushing the air out of their lungs and when they try to look up their vision clouds before they can gain any clarity.

There is violent movement directly behind them followed by the ever familiar electric hiss of a lightsaber, and through the mounting roar of the blood in Shiloh's ears they manage to catch the barest tail end of someone's words.

_"...'s your chance."_

Something takes hold of them, pulls, _yanks_ and hurls them backward and they hit the ground several yards away in a tangle of limbs and they can _breathe_ but only barely, the stubborn ghost of something clinging to their ribs as they're sucking in desperate choking lungfuls of air, and they try to right themself on trembling arms, try to process any of it through a horrified daze.

There's a fight.

Someone’s fighting.

Someone's hurt.

And then everything snaps into focus.

Arcann lays collapsed upon the stairs leading up to the dais, motionless.

Zaven, their features twisted into a fury Shiloh has never seen before, drives the blade of a lightsaber they didn't have before through Valkorion's chest. Over his shoulder, as they let the body slump to the ground, they meet Shiloh's gaze again.

And for one. Impossible. Moment.

It seems like that could be it.

It’s over.

Then the air crackles, pressure building like a sudden stormhead and somehow Valkorion _laughs,_ and it echoes through the room and it echoes inside Shiloh's head, and the sound is only barely fading when that building pressure erupts in a shockwave that cascades out across the expanse of the throne room.

And it all goes black.

* * *

No restraints.

That was the thought that kept crystallizing at the front of Shiloh’s mind. They kept trying to hold it there when it did, trying to focus on that one little curiosity in the hopes it would keep the larger panic at bay. It worked only intermittently.

But from the moment of their capture, up to that point, the transport vessel finally descending onto Korriban, they had never been restrained. Watched, yes. Guarded. Four Imperial soldiers and two Sith apprentices, and Shiloh didn’t even need to touch their minds to know that they were scared. Yet still, none of them ever made any mention of cuffs, of any kind of bindings. It had to be important. It had to mean something.

A gesture of trust, maybe?

Perhaps testing the limit of that trust was unwise. And yet there was a moment, as the shuttle doors hissed open and the dry heat of their past pressed in around them, when a realization seized them. If there was going to be any opportunity to run, to fight back, to simply make a statement that they would not passively submit, it would be then or never again.

As they stepped out into the hangar surrounded by their detail, an elbow to the nose handily staggered the nearest soldier, and they pulled his sidearm from its holster and threw him to the ground in one fluid movement. They got one blind shot off at another of the soldiers before a third fired on them and the bolt glanced across their shoulder, distracting them only momentarily before the telltale hum of a lightsaber activating had them wheeling around again. For only a second, their eyes met those of one of the apprentices, wide and panicked, and they had just enough time to wonder idly what he'd been told about them. Then he made a frantic swing in their direction and they tried to dodge back, too slow and the tip of the blade caught them across the face in an explosion of searing pain, leaving them disoriented long enough for someone to drive a rifle stock into the back of their head. They were still blinking the saber's afterimage out of their eyes when they realized they were on the ground. The stolen blaster was wrenched from their hand before they were dragged roughly back to their feet, still reeling when someone muttered, "now if you're _done,"_ and shoved them forward toward the hangar doors.

And still, as the soldiers marched them across the academy’s grounds in plain view, gripping the back of their shirt like the scruff of an ornery nexu kit, their hands were left free, and they finally understood.

This wasn't trust. Just a reminder that it wouldn't change anything. There was nowhere else they could go. Nothing they could do that mattered.

The tile was cold and unforgiving, but Shiloh swallowed their strangled cry as they were thrown to the ground, choking back everything but a silent grimace. Show pain, they thought, show anger. But never show weakness. Seven years' absence hadn't been enough for them to forget that lesson.

"Leave us."

Their escort shuffled away without another word as Zash's boots clipped out a steady staccato rhythm. She paced across the spacious office, allowing Shiloh to track her movement even as they were still struggling to get themself back up off her polished floor. Then she came to a stop only a few paces ahead of them, and in the silence that follows her footsteps were replaced by the nearly inaudible _plip…….plip…_ of blood dripping down the side of Shiloh's face onto the tile.

"I never stopped searching for you," Zash said, her tone as soft and honey-sweet as ever, _"hoping_ against hope that I might be lucky enough to bring you back."

Shiloh finally pushed themself into a sitting position, though they still remained stooped forward, eyes downcast. Exhaustion, they told themself, and not deference. “Sure,” they muttered, pressing a hand to their temple and feebly trying to fight back the pain radiating through their skull. "It was one of _your_ new apprentices who nearly took my head off," they added.

"True," Zash conceded, with the sigh of someone long-suffering and frustrated. "I was clear that I didn’t want you harmed, but he is… overeager. It wouldn't be a great loss if, perhaps, someone wanted to settle a score with him."

Shiloh finally glanced up then, taken off guard by her words. “What?” the question left their lips breathlessly, not quite a laugh. Right. They had allowed themself to forget how disposable lives were here. “Is that… is that supposed to be some kind of peace offering? Some pound of flesh laid at my feet to welcome me back?” Zash held their gaze with a level expression, revealing nothing beyond the surface of her words. Frustration mounting, Shiloh pressed, “is that what you think I _want?”_

“It was a thought, apprentice, nothing more,” Zash replied with an affable shrug, her calm demeanor cast in even stronger contrast by Shiloh’s outburst. She allowed a smile to creep across her features as she continued, "I am willing to put all this ugliness behind us, if you are. We can resume your training exactly where you left off, and we need never speak of this little diversion of yours again.”

“You- you’re kidding, you _have_ to be kidding,” Shiloh sputtered, wondering if Zash could sense the uncertainty they heard in their own words. It couldn’t be that simple. “You just- you hunt me down, drag me all the way back _here_ , and you just… want to go back to how things were? Act like it’s all _fine?”_

A diversion, she called it. A seven year absence, a desperate bid to leave the Empire behind and build a life of their own, reduced to nothing but a passing frivolity. In the end maybe it all amounted to the same thing.

Zash’s smile didn’t falter, but something sharper, a subtle hint of impatience, entered her gaze as she continued to stare Shiloh down. “I imagine you would prefer that to the alternative,” she said, “but if you would rather face the standard punishment for runaways I’m sure it can be arranged.”

The silence that followed was heavy and pointed, suggesting that she fully expected an answer. Shiloh didn’t give her one immediately. They reluctantly lowered their hand from their forehead, wiped the back of it across their mouth in an idle attempt to clear away the blood dripping over their lips. The taste of copper was already heavy on their tongue. All their disbelief rapidly simmered away in the face of her mild mannered threat, replaced by an understanding that settled heavy and unwelcome in their stomach.

_You can cooperate. Or you can die._

“Why…? I doubt anyone else would get this kind of second chance.”

“No one else would deserve it,” Zash responded, and her sincerity gave Shiloh pause. The cold edge had not left her eyes or her voice, lending the statement an unsettling intensity. “I have not been idle in your absence, you know,” she pressed on, stepping closer, “but I have to confess no one else I’ve attempted to train has been able to match your skill, your resilience, or your single-minded sense of purpose.”

Shiloh grimaced. Not because the words were unpleasant, but because they were familiar. _You’re special. You’re gifted. You’re destined for great things._ That was the trap that lured them to Korriban the first time. Made them obedient. Made them… pliable. The sentiment was colored somewhat by the threat of death now hanging over them, but they could still feel the temptation to believe worming its way into their head again.

_Maybe this time it could be different._

_This time she knows she can lose you if you’re pushed._

_This time she'll treat you better._

Shiloh screwed their eyes shut, shoving the thoughts away. Nothing would be different, of course. Nothing would be better. The only thing that changed was that now they saw the empty praise for what it was, a smokescreen over the fact that if they didn’t give everything they had it would still be taken from them. If there was anything truly unique about them, it wouldn’t be enough to earn them mercy. 

“If my dreams are to be believed,” Zash continued, echoing their unspoken thought, “you’re capable of things that simply cannot be taught. And that will be _vital_ to us.”

_Us._

_Us...?_

At that, Shiloh opened their eyes to meet hers again, and they could only laugh. It was little more than a thin wheezing chuckle but there was an obviously cruel spirit to it, and they regretted it almost immediately as their grin rewarded them with a fresh stab of pain. Still, it was not enough to quell the triumphant swell in their chest as they uttered, “so you _can't_ kill me. Because you _need_ me.”

“Yes,” Zash admitted readily, and there was almost an air of relief to the word, as if she had feared Shiloh might not understand, might not appreciate the gravity of her confession.

"For what?"

"All in good time, apprentice. For now you'll have to trust me when I say, if I am to accomplish my goals within the Empire, I truly believe it must be with you at my side." She closed the last bit of distance then, extended a hand to where Shiloh was still crumpled on the ground before her.

The instant stalled, stretched out as the full gravity of it settled over Shiloh's mind.

This was still a choice.

The choice to accept this offer of forgiveness, to step willingly back into their old life, if only to avoid being dragged back against their will. It may be the only choice they had… but it could be _their_ choice.

So they reached up and took her hand, pulled themself back to their feet and then to their full height.

"But make no mistake.” The second they seemed stable Zash released them and turned away unceremoniously, making her way back to her desk as she spoke. "If you hope to reach your true potential here, then _you_ need _me._ Now go get cleaned up and report to Overseer Harkun."

Shiloh exhaled slowly, and the answer tasted rancid on their tongue but it came easily enough. “As you say, master.”

* * *

Meditation never did come to them naturally, but in the strange not-silence of the Gravestone’s sanctuary Shiloh’s thoughts seem quieter, more still than usual. Enough that tucking themself against the back wall in the imposing shadow of the unnamed black shell and closing their eyes seemed like a natural choice when they needed a minute for themself. Enough that when the hollow metallic ring of footsteps draws them back up to the surface of their thoughts, it leaves them with the mildly frustrated disorientation of an interrupted dream. They open their eyes and blink a couple times against the cold glow of the space, before Zaven’s approaching form finally comes into focus.

“Hey-” Zaven picks up their pace, closing the remaining distance at an easy jog, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Shiloh sighs. “Why, what do they need now?” They lean forward, just preparing to stand when Zaven holds out a hand to stall them.

“Nothing, I just thought… it’s a while yet to Asylum and the ship’s holding up just fine, and I feel like with everything going on you and I have barely spoken in… well, five years, apparently,” they finish with a thin, half-hearted chuckle.

“Hm.” Shiloh settles back down, runs their hands over their face to hide the dismayed frown. They lock their eyes on some indeterminate point ahead of them as they press their hands together, rest their chin on their thumbs. “I hadn’t noticed,” they lie.

They thought they’d been fairly subtle about keeping their distance, but of course it was too much to hope that Zaven wouldn’t catch on.

For an uncomfortable moment Zaven hesitates, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. Waiting for an invitation that isn’t coming. It doesn’t seem to actually dissuade them, and when it becomes obvious that Shiloh isn’t inclined to add anything, they try again, their tone soft. Careful. "You holding up okay?”

Shiloh draws in a slow breath and doesn’t break their hunched position, doesn’t move at all beyond idly tapping their fingers against their lips. “Physically?”

“… Sure.”

The low, whispering hiss of the sanctuary pours in to fill the silence that stretches between them when Shiloh doesn’t volunteer an answer.

It’s not their place to be frustrated. To be angry. They know that. If anyone is entitled to a little anger, it’s Zaven. They deserve to be furious, horrified, they deserve to demand an explanation. But they _won’t,_ and it’s _frustrating._ Shiloh can’t begin to fathom talking to them about anything else while this still hangs over them like a dead weight, tenuous and threatening to collapse.

They sigh again. “Is that really the question you want to ask me?”

There’s a momentary pause, punctuated by the dull rustle of fabric as Zaven crosses their arms. “Is there something else you’d rather talk about?”

Shiloh finally drops their hands into their lap just to shoot a thin-lipped scowl up at Zaven, who for a second looks genuinely startled by the sudden hostility. Then in a sudden spike of irritation Shiloh clambers to their feet and walks a stiff quarter-circle around the chamber before halting to hurl their words back at Zaven. “How many times are you going to let me _do_ this to you?”

“What?” Zaven trails behind them at an uneasy distance, caught too off-guard this time to consider their words before responding. “What have you done to _me?”_

“What have-” Shiloh echoes with a sputtering, humorless laugh. They lift their chin and square their shoulders, looking for all intent like they’re about to address a crowd. “On Korriban,” they start, slicing the air with one hand as if to gesture outward toward the planet. “When they brought us back, I agreed to stay. Freely. It was two months before I ever asked what happened to you, because all I cared about was making sure I wasn’t the one they punished for running.” They study Zaven’s face, but beyond the slightly concerned furrow of their brows, the exact nature of their expression is difficult to read. “On Oricon,” Shiloh resumes, determined to get a reaction, “I was ready to walk into the Dread Fortress and give them anything. Everything. I didn’t even consider what that meant, I just thought _maybe_ I would be safer that way. Maybe it would be easier. And I stood by watching Vitiate use you, watching you resist every second of it, I stood _right next to you_ while you demanded to be free and then the instant he offered to replace you with me I said _yes._ Because I-” their voice cracks. They stop, take one shallow breath, set their jaw and will their words to stay level and unbroken. “Because all I cared about was being the one to walk away.”

Silence again. Zaven’s gaze slides away as they weigh their response, frowning first at the curved metal walls and then at the strange black mass in the sanctuary’s center. They’re still avoiding Shiloh’s eyes when they mumble, “I don’t blame you for any of that.”

 _"Chu peetch dikoocha-"_ Shiloh closes the distance between them in a breath, grabs Zaven’s arm and forces them to talk face to face. “ _Why!?_ Why wouldn’t you blame me when _every_ opportunity I get I choose myself over you? If Arcann had wanted to kill you in that throne room I don’t know if I could have stopped him.”

That’s not quite right. But the unspoken version of that confession still sitting at the back of their throat feels too poisonous to speak, even with everything else laid bare.

 _I don’t know if I_ **_would_ ** _have stopped him._

 _“Vod-”_ Zaven starts, and the gentle assurance of that single word is infuriating enough for Shiloh to release them with a petulant shove and stalk a few feet away. “Because I understand,” they insist. "And in the end we always work it out, right? That's why we're both still here."

"So what," Shiloh sneers, whipping back around. "So _what!_ What happens the one time it doesn't work out? What happens if I stand by and let you die, will you _understand_ that? Will you _forgive me?"_

The pained look that passes over Zaven's face shouldn't be as satisfying as it is. Somewhere, far in the back of Shiloh's mind, they know this isn't right. It isn't fair. It doesn't change anything.

"I don't…" Zaven falters, searches their face. "I don't know what you want me to say."

 _"I want you to be mad!_ Yell at me, call me names, tell me how much I messed up, just tell me I did something _wrong._ Just be _honest_ with me." They can hear the anger in their own voice starting to slip, starting to give way to a more ragged desperation.

"I _am_ being honest-"

 _“E, schutta,”_ Shiloh spits, and finally they get the barest hint of what they were pushing for, a flicker of frustration as Zaven falls abruptly silent. "Just shut up, you're so full of shit, Zaven. Nobody's that patient for no reason."

There’s something else in Zaven’s eyes then, there and gone before Shiloh can name it. They wait for a beat, maybe bracing to be cut off again, and when they press on their tone is still low and soft, but there’s a sharper edge to it. “So you think this is, what, some long con? You think after all these years I’m just tallying up favors I can call in some day?”

Shiloh grits their teeth, balls their hands into fists at their sides. There’s a space there where they could respond, but all their furious words abandon them at once, leaving them glaring down at the floor as they mentally fumble for the right answer. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

“Is that how you see me?” Zaven persists. “Like Zash? Like _Vitiate?”_

“It’s not _about you.”_ The denial leaves Shiloh’s lips in little more than a hoarse whisper. They still can’t meet Zaven’s eye.

“No?” Zaven takes a step closer. “A second ago I had some ulterior motive for being sympathetic, now it’s not about me?”

Shiloh screws their eyes shut, pressing their palms against their eyelids hard enough to cloud their vision with starbursts. “It’s- forget it, I don’t-” A wave of nausea threatens to turn their stomach at the same time a sudden pressure drives against the inside of their skull, and they drag an unsteady breath into their chest as they fight against both. They were wrong, they don’t want to talk about this anymore. They don’t want to _think_ about this anymore. This conversation needs to end.

They’re just beginning to turn away when Zaven speaks again. Just a quiet, tentative “Shiloh…” But it’s enough to stop them in their tracks. “I… Please, tell me what this is really about.”

It’s such a gentle request, but it hits Shiloh like a blow to the chest, driving the air from their lungs in a broken gasp. Because Zaven never presses. They never _ask._

But the answer comes spilling out before they can stop it. “I can’t- I can’t do this, okay? I’m not strong enough, I’m not good enough, I don’t know what anyone here wants from me. I can’t fight this war and I can’t be counted on to protect anyone and I can’t stand knowing that when the time comes I _will_ disappoint them.”

“You don’t have to do any of that,” Zaven says decisively, but their certainty just leaves Shiloh bristling.

“Sure, whatever,” they scoff, “because you’ll take the lead and you’ll make all the good noble choices like you always do.”

“No-” Zaven pauses, just long enough for Shiloh to catch some momentary internal debate play out behind their eyes before they collect themself. “I just… I just meant you don’t have to do this at all. Regardless of what Lana or anyone else says, you don’t owe them anything just by being here. You don’t have to fight.”

Shiloh grimaces, biting back their immediate impulse to argue when they realize they’re not even sure what they’d be arguing for. Or against. Instead they just mutter, “and you do?”

The question seems to catch Zaven by surprise, and to their credit they give it a moment’s consideration before simply offering, “I have a personal stake in this.”

“Sure.” The conversation had drifted somewhere strange, and Shiloh is becoming acutely aware of how unmoored they feel, their initial anger sputtering out into ashes at some point like a forgotten campfire. They run a hand through their hair with a sigh and roll their eyes up toward the ceiling.

So the weight finally fell, they pulled the walls down themself and let it all collapse around them. And nothing changed.

“I don’t know why I thought this would help.”

“What-” Zaven doesn’t get any further than that before Shiloh turns on their heel, abandoning the sanctuary, the discussion, and Zaven in one sweep.

* * *

_"_ I'm just saying, it's been four days since the tower and I really think we ought to talk about- Shiloh _wait_ -”

Shiloh didn’t wait. In fact they quickened their pace, telling themself it was because the Fury shouldn’t be down in the lower atmosphere for too long and they wanted to board before any of Oricon’s hostiles took notice. If Zaven took any other meaning from the action, it didn’t dissuade them, and they followed Shiloh up the gangplank onto the ship with a stubborn certainty.

That’s when Shiloh finally stopped and turned on their heel to face them. “Did I invite you aboard?” they snapped.

Zaven pulled up short no more than a step past the door, shoulders stiff. When they dared to answer, even through the vocal filter of their helmet there was a tinge of unease to their voice. “Do you… want me to leave?”

It was enough for Shiloh’s bristling mood to falter, just for a second. Just long enough for them to realize that ‘yes’ was an answer that would come with too many deeper implications for them to unpack right then. So they offered up a defeated shrug instead, and a simple “you want to talk, then talk” as they moved further into the ship.

Zaven trailed after, but when they didn’t immediately speak again it left a window for Ashara to step out from the helm, already asking “did you want to leave orbit, or-” before the almost palpable tension hit her.

“No,” Shiloh bit out, offering no further clarification.

“Then…” Ashara’s eyes flicked between the two of them, and though her expression remained calm it was hard to imagine she couldn’t sense that she had stepped into something beyond her. “Perhaps I could have a look at the planet’s surface myself?”

Shiloh shifted their weight slightly, at least having the presence of mind to briefly wonder if that was wise. "Just… just be careful. Don't leave Hargrev's camp."

Ashara nodded, slipping past them with a murmured "as you say." She ducked out, and the airlock hissed shut behind her.

Beyond that, the ship was blessedly quiet with the rest of the crew temporarily reassigned to the fleet. Shiloh paced across the comm center and fiddled briefly with the holoterminal with an obviously nervous energy, before they finally collected themself enough to undo the fasteners of their mask. They dragged the whole thing off and ran their fingers through their hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it out of whatever disarray it had been left in. In the loaded silence still blanketing the deck, they shot Zaven an impatient look.

“You-” Zaven cut themself off almost immediately, and with a sigh they reached up to remove their own helmet as well. Under the ship’s cold lighting the worried creases of their brow were drawn in sharp detail. “You’re not really planning to go into the Dread Fortress, are you?”

“Of course not,” Shiloh scoffed, unclasping their gloves and discarding them alongside their mask atop the holoterminal. “If I tried that with no backup I’d be killed at the gates.”

Zaven took a step closer, idly turning the helmet over in their hands. Their movements were stilted, tentative. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

The cloak came off next, and as Shiloh cast it aside they finally felt like they could move around their ship with a little more freedom. The physical weight lessened, even if the mental weight was still insistently pressing down on them. “I don’t know yet, okay?”

“You don’t _know?”_ The words came with enough force to make Shiloh flinch, and Zaven immediately backpedaled with a hurried, “sorry, I-” before Shiloh cut them off.

“I _don’t know_ , Zaven! I don’t- I didn’t think they would actually-” they groaned, rubbing their face as the agitation overtook them again and they moved away from the holoterminal. A frantic scan of the deck turned up nothing that immediately demanded their attention, and they were left with no option but to pace back in Zaven’s direction. “Ever since Belsavis I’ve been _trying_ to understand them. How they think, what drives them. I thought if I could just talk to them directly…” Their anxious pacing slowed to a stop as their gaze drifted downward, toward the floor of the ship, indirectly toward the surface of the planet. “I never expected that they would just… offer to…”

Zaven’s hand on their arm drew their attention back up, and without knowing what expression had come over them they tried to school their features into something neutral. “I don’t think there’s… really anything there for you to understand,” Zaven said slowly, like they were picking their words with the utmost caution. “They’re not… they’ve been spiraling for three hundred _years_ , they said themselves _they_ don’t even know what drives them anymore.”

“But there has to be a reason they’re _different_ , they’re _special,_ ” Shiloh insisted, brushing Zaven’s hand away. They resumed their circuit of the room for only a moment before wheeling around again to fix their eyes on Zaven. “You saw what they did at the prison, at their weakest. And you must have felt it yourself _here_ , walking around in their shadow. That _feeling…_ that constant fear in the pit of your stomach. That’s not new to me, I know that fear. I _live_ with that fear. And they just- they weave it like silk without a second thought.”

They held Zaven’s gaze for an expectant beat, but whether they were waiting for a concession or an argument, they weren’t even sure. Zaven just cast a searching look around the deck before responding, “and you think if you join them they’ll, what… take that away?”

 _“No_ , no, that’s not-” they broke off with a short, frantic laugh, running both hands through their hair again in a meaningless gesture, just trying to find an outlet for their own energy. “I just want to control it, I want it to finally _serve me_ somehow, I’m so- I’m _so tired_ of being afraid for my life for no _reason!”_

“And you think the exchange is worth it?” Zaven’s tone was weak, somehow straddling the divide between accusational and simply desperate. “You’d give up everything else you care about for that?”

“What am I giving up?” Shiloh fired back with another burst of laughter, throwing their arms out as they looked pointedly around their surroundings. “A ship? A council seat? A _title?_ I don’t care, I didn’t want to be powerful, I wanted to be _safe._ What have I ever had in life that I couldn’t afford to lose?”

Zaven winced, took a step back like they’d been physically struck, and dropped their eyes to the floor at their feet.

And all at once Shiloh understood exactly what they’d just said.

They let their arms fall as the humorless smile slipped from their face. In the span of a heartbeat they were overtaken by a lightheadedness that had them stumbling back, bracing themself against the holoterminal before their knees could go out from under them.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean-” the words felt hollow and chalky on their tongue. There didn’t seem to be much of anything left for them to say, anything to bring them back up over the edge of that precipice of an admission. Because they did mean it. Up until that moment they had really thought, maybe… maybe it _would_ be worth it. "They'd kill you," they continued, speaking more to themself now than to Zaven, ice cold understanding finally dawning over them. "Or _worse_ , and they- oh kriff and you were standing _right there_ when they said…"

"Hey… it's okay," Zaven replied softly, but Shiloh didn't look up as they moved closer. _"I'm_ okay, nothing has happened and we can still-"

"I think you should go." Zaven pulled back again. Shiloh still didn't look up, just turned their focus pointedly to the holoterminal's interface. "I need to get in touch with Marr, tell him to scramble another squad to take on the fortress now that we have a proper survey." They stopped before actually sending the call through, waiting with increasing desperation for Zaven to take the cue.

"... Alright." Zaven's steps were clear and crisp against the floor panels as they retreated back to the airlock, pausing when it hissed open again. "Shiloh… you know I trust you, right?"

"If you say so."

And Zaven stepped out, the hatch slid closed once more, and Shiloh was alone.

Alone with the reality that there was a moment, however short, when the possibility of losing Zaven had not even registered to them as a problem.

Alone with the horror of their own runaway thoughts, all the ways that could have ended.

Alone with the guilt twisting and roiling in their stomach until it finally became too much and they sank to their knees, abandoning any pretense of useful action.

Alone with the knowledge that it could happen again, that it was only a matter of time until their fear, their weakness and desperation, became a weapon wielded against Zaven instead.

* * *

_“That’s strange,”_ Lana’s voice crackles over the comm and drifts into the cavernous empty space as Zaven strides up to the railing overlooking the rest of the control spar. _“I was expecting at least a token guard of-”_ the end of her comment breaks apart into a burst of static as a ship tears across the view through the high ornamental windows on the far wall.

A few paces back, Shiloh stops dead in their tracks. Something’s… off. Something about the scene is wrong.

Zaven eyes the comm link on their wrist and then scans their immediate surroundings before facing Shiloh, brow furrowed in a look of thoughtful concern that doesn’t quite rise to the same level as the blatant unease Shiloh suspects is plastered across their own features.

“This… _is_ weird, right?” Zaven murmurs, their voice instinctively lowered to just above a whisper. “How many people do you think normally run this place?”

“There’s no bodies.” The response comes out anxious and clipped. It’s the only thing Shiloh can focus on. Wrong. It feels wrong. Zaven blinks, turns to sweep their gaze over the control room once again. No bodies, no sign of a fight, no sign of a panicked evacuation. Given the state of the rest of Asylum, it feels like...

“You think this is a trap.” Zaven finally puts words to the nameless fear soaking into Shiloh’s mind.

Shiloh takes a slow breath, clenching their fists to stave off the prickling tension creeping up through their fingers. “It doesn’t matter, we need that ship in the air,” they say, and with all the false confidence they can muster they step around Zaven and descend the ramp to the main platform. Zaven follows a moment later and falls into step behind them, and though Shiloh is keenly aware of how vulnerable to attack they are as they cross the open space, they reach the glowing consoles at the opposite end whole and unassailed.

This should be easy. In and out, get the Gravestone out of lockdown and get back on board and away to safety. By now Shiloh has familiarized themself with enough Zakuulan tech that they should be able to brute-force their way into the system within the first few attempts. But their hands are jittery, their thoughts elsewhere, and after the third _Access Denied_ warning flashes across the screen they kick the base of the console and push themself away from it with a string of exasperated curses.

Zaven breaks off their patrol of the area and doubles back, calling, “you want to tag me in?” to which Shiloh just offers a shrug and a half-hearted gesture toward the offending system, a wordless but clear enough _be my guest._ The soft clatter of the keys under Zaven’s fingers fills Shiloh’s ears as they pace in the opposite direction.

They take some small petty satisfaction on the fact that Zaven struggles with the console for another minute before it finally rewards them with a more promising electronic tone, but the comm silence from the Gravestone persists. Anxiety comes crawling back over Shiloh’s skin, the stillness and silence of the spar becoming more uncanny by the moment. They’re just turning around to urge Zaven to hurry when a hint of movement off to the left catches their eye.

In the span of a breath they try to shout a warning and Arcann springs out of the shadows in a streak of humming yellow light. Zaven ducks out of the way but it’s Shiloh who throws a hand out, grasping through the force to slow him just enough that the path of his lightsaber doesn’t score the console down the middle. An instant later Zaven’s hands fly to the hilts of their own weapons but the cool purple light of Shiloh’s blade materializes a split second faster.

Undeterred, Arcann readies another blow against Zaven before Shiloh gets a firmer grip and _pulls_ . Telekinesis was never their strong point but it’s enough to drag Arcann back a few feet, and _that’s_ enough for him to shift his attention to them with a furious glare. _“You,”_ he spits, leveling the tip of his lightsaber with their chest, “do not get to touch me.”

Shiloh takes a deep breath and plants their feet, reverses the grip on their saber in anticipation of an attack. “Then do something about it, _sleemo_.” Zaven catches their eye for the briefest moment before taking the hint and turning studiously back to the console.

Arcann advances with a strong but predictable swing of his weapon and Shiloh blocks it easily, casts off the next and dodges the one after that as they fall back, drawing him out onto the central platform. Maybe they let their confidence start to show a little too obviously, a grin just beginning to play at the corners of their mouth, because in the next instant he abandons the armed attacks with a frustrated roar and simply hurls them backward into the side of the ramp they descended on their initial entrance. In the stunned few seconds it takes them to scramble back to their feet he’s already turning back to Zaven, but they volley a bright crack of lightning his way that sends him stumbling forward with a grunt.

It’s enough. Within another moment there’s a burst of static from both of their comms, followed by Tora’s voice shouting _“-ybody pile in, go!”_ Zaven draws both of their lightsabers in one fluid move as they wheel around to join the fray.

With Zaven as a permissible target now, Arcann doesn’t turn back to Shiloh. He just raises one hand and they feel themself slip backward, hit the railing behind them again and stay there, invisible pressure building by the second. Zaven freezes in their tracks.

“Tell me, father,” Arcann growls, the satisfaction dripping from his voice even in spite of the obscurity of his features. “How did you ever put so much faith in someone with such an obvious weakness?”

“Your father’s not here,” Zaven sneers. “But if you’ve got something to prove why don’t you do it in a fair fight?”

Arcann stands his ground. His grip tightens around Shiloh’s throat until they’re choking on their futile attempt to breathe, black spots crowding in at the edges of their vision and blind panic blooming sudden and vibrant through their thoughts. They meet Zaven’s gaze with wide, desperate eyes. Begging. _Do something do something_ **_do something-_ **

Resolve hardens Zaven’s features in an instant. 

It only takes one leaping blow to break Arcann’s focus and Shiloh crumbles to the ground gasping and trembling. They don’t see how the fight unfolds from there but they can hear the angry spitting clash of lightsaber blades, they can feel the vibrations of heavy, hasty footsteps through the floor of the platform. But they can’t move, except to bury their face in their hands and choke back the ugly sob threatening to break them down.

Too much, too close. Too real.

“Shiloh!”

Zaven’s voice, winded, from some indeterminate distance.

“Shiloh make sure the rest of the crew gets out safely!”

What-

Shiloh finally lets their hands fall away and looks up. Zaven is holding their own but Arcann has taken the clear advantage, badgering them with bursts of lightning to drive them back toward an edge of the platform where the only thing they’re going to meet if they hit the railing is sky.

And they’re telling Shiloh to _run._

They could. They could run. Zaven could buy them time to get out of the spar, a headstart back to the Gravestone, and whatever happened from there… it wouldn’t be their fight.

Still in a haze they paw around on the ground until they find the hilt of their saber--not even certain when they dropped it--and lurch to their feet. They can split their resources, speed up the process and minimize the losses. This is the right choice.

For the sake of the ship. The crew. The cause.

They make it halfway up the ramp still telling themself that.

But Zaven is going to lose this fight.

The thought crashes against their mind with all the force of an oncoming speeder. Not a fear. A certainty.

_If Arcann had wanted to kill you in that throne room I don’t know if I would have stopped him._

They could. They could still fight, tip the odds in even the most miniscule of ways. Change the inevitable. They freeze, resisting every ounce of their own instincts screaming inside their head to _get out stay alive just save yourself that’s the only thing that matters-_ Then they turn back.

And they’re too slow.

And it happens anyway.

The cruel sulphur yellow blade of Arcann’s saber meeting no resistance as it plunges through Zaven’s stomach to spill out the other side.

The single, rattling breath, before the realization, before reality catches up to itself.

The low rumble of Arcann’s voice, words spoken only for Zaven’s ears. Taunting. Private.

Someone. Screams.

It's only when the sound cuts off that Shiloh realizes that was their voice, their throat raw with the horror of it. Arcann’s gaze snaps up to meet theirs and he casts Zaven aside with a dispassionate shrug, driving a choking gasp out of them as they hit the ground.

And then they lay horribly, undeniably still.

And something in Shiloh, in their gut in their head in their heart… _breaks._

Arcann only takes one step before Shiloh moves, vaulting over the railing to hit the main platform with a shock wave that sends him stumbling backward. A wild bolt of lightning, another, a perilous whirling blow of their lightsaber, a furious elbow to the soft, unprotected side of his face, and Shiloh drives him out into the center of the spar and away from Zaven, fighting against the impulse to fall back and check on them.

To make sure they’re still…

To know if-

It only takes a momentary lapse for Arcann to regain the advantage, press it through several quick attacks before he staggers them with a heavy downward arc of his saber that they barely stop with their own, a sharp protest shooting up their leg when their knee collides with the floor. For a moment they can do nothing more than strain against Arcann’s weight, the blades hissing and snapping at each other like feral things mere inches from their face. Then in a desperate bid they grit their teeth and slip one hand from the hilt of their weapon to seize Arcann’s wrist, dragging their mental claws through the veins of life force they find coursing there even as they can feel their physical defense buckling. Arcann reacts immediately, and they catch only the barest startled flash in his eye before he wrests his arm free and pulls away. Just as immediately he retaliates, throwing his arms forward with another telekinetic burst that sends Shiloh crumpling fully at his feet and their weapon skittering away across the floor.

Without wasting a breath he raises his lightsaber to deliver another killing blow, and Shiloh knows with a bone-chilling surety that they’ll be too slow this time too.

Arcann doesn’t move.

It takes another heartbeat for Shiloh to notice it--the dark, colorless twist at the edges of their vision. The unnatural quiet and stillness of being one step removed from reality. Then Valkorion is there at their side, regarding his halted son with an unreadable expression.

"Let me go, I'll _kill_ _him,_ " Shiloh snarls breathlessly, but in that brief reprieve they’re only able to push themself back up to their knees before the indignant burst of strength fails them again.

Valkorion shifts his weight slightly, his gaze drifting down to Shiloh. The corners of his eyes crease with detached amusement. "We both know you’re not nearly strong enough for that. Not alone."

It feels like an accusation. A sharp blow to their chest and to their pride, and they have to stop themself from looking back at the prone body behind them. It feels like the truth. But more than that, woven into Valkorion’s words there’s… a solution. A promise.

The sparks are already dancing around Shiloh’s fingertips, a preemptive concession to an offer he didn’t even have to make, when they nod.

“Do whatever you have to do.”

Then the world leaps back to life around them.

Arcann’s attack glances fruitlessly to the side before a pulse of energy drives him back a pace. Shiloh’s vision swims, fills with light, and something seizes them, buries itself in their chest and hauls them violently to their feet as the air around them thickens and crackles.

All at once their senses are blazing with the maelstrom of power tearing around them, and they turn the full force of that storm forward in a wave that knocks Arcann’s lightsaber from his hand and sends it cartwheeling over the side of the platform, a second wave that crashes over him and would have sent him tumbling after it if he hadn’t braced against it at the last second. The high window behind him, overlooking the battlefield, shatters outward and lightning spills out to arc over the unsuspecting ships still embroiled in their own dogfighting. As Arcann begins to lose ground and still bites out a defiant threat that gets lost beneath the torrent, Shiloh focuses on the righteous fury still howling in their chest, and not on the way their own movements feel mechanical, distant. Barely their own. They focus on one final push, just as Arcann dares to step in to land a final blow and sacrifices the stability that had saved him up to that moment. His balance fails him and he flies backward, hits the railing with a heavy _crunch_ before disappearing over the edge, down into the open air below.

For one more moment, the world is just light and electricity and _power._

Then that power unceremoniously abandons Shiloh, takes whatever was left of their own strength with it as it gutters out and dissipates, and the ground rises to meet them in a sudden rush. And then the world is just quiet.

They don’t know how long they lay there, seconds, minutes curled in on themself like a dying insect with their forehead pressed to the cold floor, with every nerve burning, ears ringing, a sickly mingling of copper and bile at the back of their throat.

And all they can think is that it’s almost… funny, how familiar this is. How close they came to dying this way once already.

Then there’s. Something. The faintest movement, a slight rustle of fabric and a faltering sigh. Shiloh’s eyes snap open.

It still takes them an agonizing few seconds to find the strength for more than that but slowly, slowly, they get their hands under them, flat against the ground, and they pull in a deep breath to steady themself, and they push, and they never quite make it to their feet but in a stumbling, graceless crawl they drag themself back to Zaven’s side.

And find them breathing. Just barely.

Relief pours out of Shiloh in racking sobs as they clutch at Zaven’s coat, pull them close and cling to them as if they could hold that tiny spark of life in place with their bare hands. “I’m sorry,” they breathe, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t stop him I couldn’t I was-”

Zaven presses a single trembling hand to their arm, the angle awkward but it’s enough to stall their frantic apology and make them pull back. Pain is etched deep into every crease in Zaven’s features as they draw a ragged breath in through clenched teeth. “Ti…” their voice is weak and hoarse, their first attempt to speak aborting in a sputtering cough that leaves their lips flecked with blood. “ _Tion mhi su_ -...”

Shiloh exhales a frail chuckle, more disbelief than anything. “N- uh-” They screw their eyes shut for a second, digging frantically through the tangled mess of their own emotions for something useful. “ _K- ke nu’jorhaa’i, gar_ -... You…” You’re wounded. Dying. Of course that would be the word they couldn’t remember.

Zaven blinks, squinting up at them through some indeterminate haze of pain or confusion, but whether Shiloh effectively conveyed the order or not, they fall silent.

There’s a lull, then, Shiloh still clutching Zaven in their arms as they slowly realize, with a sense of dread that feels both deeply rooted and strangely impersonal, that they don’t know what to do now. Even at their best they doubt they could carry Zaven far, and now it’s taking a concentrated effort just to stay upright at their side. And wherever Arcann is now, he’s not the only threat to them here.

The distant sound of footsteps cements their fear, until someone calls out _“Shiloh!”_ and they realize with a gasp that the voice is blessedly familiar.

“Koth!” they shout back, the name coming to their lips ragged and scared as they twist to look back over their shoulder. “Koth help me, _please!”_


End file.
